Part I: Abjuration
by Azolean
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has returned from the dead. Where do they go from here? Can it really be so easy to fall back into such a comfortably familiar life?
1. Prologue

_**A/N:**__ Okay, I have no doubts this is very likely to offend at least some of the canon readers and even Grenada series fans. I am a devout fan of both. However, for those who have not read my profile, I am going to restate my position._

_This is a work of fanfiction. I do not take it seriously, it is for fun and exercise. The following stories posted in the Sherlock Holmes fanfiction categories were NOT originally intended to be such. They started off as a series of snapshots for an original work I am dealing with from about the same time period. I have since decided to adapt them and post them._

_So, the real warning is this: These will, obviously, be AU. There is just no pretending otherwise. Secondly, there is going to be some OOC. I don't know how much yet, since I am still adapting the the characters to the story and vice versa, depending on the parts. In all honesty, I really have no idea where this is going or how it will end. Sometimes my muses take different guises and will not allow me a moment's peace until I agree to do their bidding. Such is the life of a writer, I suppose._

_What I'm looking for: My writing has been suffering for many years and has been a desperate struggle. At this point in time I'm very much looking to improve and would greatly welcome any suggestions in how and where to do so. However, given the fact that one of the most epic and time-consuming original works I've ever produced to date is from the same time period and closely related to the locations involved in these fics, I would also greatly appreciate anyone who can help me in dealing with historical inaccuracies more so than canon inaccuracies._

_Above all, please enjoy this pathetic offering of fanfiction from an unworthy writer. If you do not enjoy it, do not suffer reading it. I have no wish to inflict my writing on anyone unwilling. No one is forcing you, and disliking it does not hurt my feelings. Please move on to the next admirable writer here in this fandom; for I have found many, and would happily give suggestions where to start._

_**~ Azolean**_

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**Prologue: ****_The Day After_**

**_de·ni·al [dih-nahy-uhl] _**  
_1. an assertion that something said, believed, alleged, etc., is false_  
_2. refusal to believe a doctrine, theory, or the like._  
_3. disbelief in the existence or reality of a thing._  
_4. the refusal to satisfy a claim, request, desire, etc., or the refusal of a person making it._  
_5. refusal to recognize or acknowledge; a disowning or disavowal_

As the rising sun heralded the beginnings of a bright new day, the people walking beneath the windows of the sitting room at 221B Baker Street in London could not even begin to imagine that a dead man now walked amongst them once more. All of the world had read for themselves only months before Doctor John Watson's account of the death of the singular man they knew as Sherlock Holmes. Below those windows a handful of people had begun to stir as Holmes watched unnoticed from his vantage point. He fancied he could almost feel the city's more respectable citizens coming alive with the dawn, much as a bear from hibernation. While those night-time spectators of the darker side slunk off to their abodes, Holmes relished the feel of the city around him once again.

Light or dark, this city was his home, and he had been away for far too long. Turning away from the early daylight scene before him, Holmes drew his gaze back toward the most comforting sight of all. At some point during their long night both he and Watson had dozed off in their chairs beside the cold fireplace as if unwilling to leave after so long a time away. Having woken to a room devoid of light, Holmes realized that even Mrs. Hudson had been just as unwilling to disturb them now that they were both back where she felt they belonged. The knitted blanket that still covered his friend peacefully sleeping away the morning was further proof of her previous presence.

Though most of his thoughts had been taken up with concern for what sort of reaction he would receive from his dear friend upon his return, Holmes only now realized what a profound effect his return had also had upon their dear landlady. Briefly he wondered exactly when it was she had stopped regarding them as simply tenants and more like her own sons. Brushing this thought aside, Holmes quietly resumed his seat across from Watson as the light began to reveal more than he had had a chance to take in the day before. While his thoughts had been so occupied with the case and the chance to regain his freedom and livelihood in London, he had only taken such time as was needed to assess his dear friend's most basic appearances.

Now, as the sunlight began to filter into the room around him, he was able to take in more than he had ever seen before. Immediately Holmes had noticed the abundance of gray hair and lines of care about his friend's face that seemed to clash with the mental image he had drawn from his memories. He couldn't help a frown that marred his own features as he realized how profound the changes really were. Beneath the layers of neat clothing and blanket sat a man Holmes only recognized from a distant past memory. He could remember a time when his dearest friend appeared just as physically frail as he did now. But he could not remember his friend ever seeming so very weary and worn down. Even during the most gruelling cases mingled with overnight vigils when Watson had pushed himself to the point of illness and collapse he had not looked so very...fragile.

Holmes very nearly started in his chair as he realized that _that_ had been the exact word that came to mind upon the sight of his friend now resting peacefully. Taking in the full image, he deduced that it was likely the first sound, peaceful sleep his friend had had in quite some time. Loathe to disturb it, he continued his observations in silence. Despite his attempts to learn more than what he could see for himself or what he already knew, Holmes could not seem to get beyond that one word he had never thought to attribute to this man before him. It disturbed him deeply that even in sleep, his friend appeared both fragile and plagued by a grief.

For a time Holmes lost himself in these observations. He knew of the death of Watson's wife some five months ago. He knew now his friend had suffered greatly at the apparent loss of his only friend. The rest he only knew through his reading of Watson's publications of their adventures. He could only gauge so much through the written works as to what his friend had been feeling during those times. Some seemed more lighthearted than others. Then there were those that seemed almost to be a desperate clinging to the ghost of a friend that had abandoned him.

Before his thoughts could turn down that darker path of guilt yet again, Holmes watched as Watson's brow furrowed slightly as the man began to wake. Keeping his silence, Holmes schooled his features to one of amusement as he watched his friend emerge from the depths of sleep. Those green eyes swiftly flew open in surprise at realizing he was not in his own bed. Moments later confusion and panic flitted across his features as he began to realize that he was not, in fact, in his own home at all. As that gaze fell upon his dearest friend in the matching chair opposite his own, Watson's grip upon the arms tightened.

"Good morning, Watson," Holmes replied brightly.

"Holmes," Watson whispered in awe. "So it wasn't a dream? I'm not going mad?"

At this Holmes could not help the chuckle that greeted these words. "Not unless we're sharing that dream along with Mrs. Hudson and the rest of London. As to the question of madness, I would like to believe you to be the better judge of that in any case."

These lighthearted words instead had an opposite effect that made Holmes' heart skip a beat. For one brief moment Watson's face became a mask of barely contained grief before he bowed his head and freed his hands from beneath the blanket to scrub at his unshaven face. When he looked up again it was as if the moment had never happened as he smiled wryly at his friend.

"Well, if I _have_ gone mad, then it would seem I am at least in good company."

Again Holmes found himself chuckling as the momentary tension left them both and Watson's dearly missed sense of humor caught him off guard. Still searching for traces of what he thought he had seen in that unguarded moment, Holmes watched his friend groan his way through some stretches to work out the stiffness from having slept in his chair.

"For some reason, I seem to remember this chair in a fonder light. I don't recall it being quite so uncomfortable," Watson commented, eyeing his friend. "You don't seem to have suffered for your sleeping there."

The comment seemed to contain at least some element of question to it Holmes felt compelled to answer, as if to assure his friend he had, indeed, slept. However, before he could do so, the anticipated knock upon the sitting room door had him bounding swiftly to aid Mrs. Hudson in laying out their morning repast.

"My, but it is good to be doing this again," Mrs. Hudson commented, laying out all the dishes in precise order to what she remembered to be their liking.

"Agreed, my dear lady," Watson added warmly, taking his seat before the table.

"It looks to be an excellent breakfast, Mrs. Hudson. You've outdone yourself!"

"Between the two of you, I've got my work cut out for me. You can expect more of the same as long as you're actually eating it," she scolded gently, patting a somewhat abashed Watson on the shoulder as she turned to exit the sitting room.

For a moment Holmes grinned at Watson who gave every appearance of a chagrined schoolboy. In return Watson summoned all his former dignity and cocked an eyebrow at Holmes as if daring him to say something. This familiar silent exchange warmed some part of his soul. After all these years, Holmes had not dared to receive such a warm and forgiving welcome from his long-suffering friend. Smiling into his cup of perfectly brewed coffee, he set aside the issue of Watson's appearance and set to the meal with a fervor that surprised even Watson.

Though Watson appeared to thoroughly enjoy his own portion of their repast, Holmes took note of the fact that he didn't eat very much at all. Again, letting this go for a later time if needed, he simply took in his friend's increasingly relaxed and comfortable demeanor. As they both pushed aside empty plates and turned their attention toward more cups of steaming coffee, Holmes wondered how to broach the subjects he'd compiled in his most recent observations. Somewhat uncomfortable as to where to start, he instead turned to his pipe collection at the mantle. In the moments it took him to stuff his pipe from a pouch he'd kept on him, Watson had also abandoned the breakfast table in favor of wandering their sitting room.

"I suppose there is much you wish to catch up on with your return to London," Watson commented quietly, looking anywhere but at Holmes.

Holmes finished lighting his pipe to his satisfaction before resuming his seat before the fireplace. "As to that, old chap, I had hoped to impose upon your time and patience. After all, you've been here this whole time and would know more than I could glean from my simple wanderings."

Holmes was rewarded with a delightedly genuine smile from Watson. "Of course, Holmes. And it wouldn't be an imposition at all."

"What about your practice? Have you already sought a locum for the day?"

To Holmes' dismay Watson's features closed off as if a mask had slammed into place. The smile that had only moments before lit his green eyes now barely tugged at the corners as he fought to keep it in place. The eyes themselves had taken on a rather piercingly hollow luster as he waved off Holmes' questions. "Yes, of course. Though, I would not mind freshening up and a change of clothes. Shall I meet you at my practice in say, two hours, then?"

Feeling somewhat put off and on edge by this rather unexpected turn in his friend's demeanor, Holmes nodded his agreement placing a patently false smile on his own face. Again Holmes watched with keenness as his friend's features changed swiftly to unquestionable joy at the prospect of spending a day with his dear friend after so much time apart. He watched closely as Watson gathered his coat and few other possessions and quickly left the sitting room. Alone with his thoughts, Holmes again wondered how much his friend had changed and how much he was keeping to himself.

Though their morning together had been amiable enough, Holmes' few attempts to discuss Watson's side of the last three years were deftly evaded with surprising ease. Recalling the conversation of the last hour or so, he only now realized how easy it had been for his friend to turn the conversation back to the events of his travels without ever once seeming to evade answering. In the same token, Holmes had been all too happy to share his own experiences.

_Perhaps too much so, _he mused to himself.

His natural curiosity aside, there was something of an air of grief and sorrow about his dear friend that lingered quite strongly even when he seemed most eager to hear more. Holmes could not quite put aside the uneasy feeling he was missing something very important. Watson's body language and facial expressions had always been an open book to him. Closing his eyes, he recalled in minute detail everything he had observed of his friend thus far. And, for the first time in his life, he realized how much now lay beneath the surface that he could only speculate. Somewhere in the last three years, his Watson had learned to school his features and hide much. To almost anyone else, Watson would likely have appeared openly relaxed and even happy. But, for Holmes, the details of the tiniest nature jumped out at him all the more painfully.

Yes, painfully, he realized now. It hurt him in some way he could not quite identify to understand that his friend had not only been forced to learn such tactics as hiding his thoughts and feelings from others, but that he had done so even in the presence of his most trusted friend. How badly had the man suffered to feel he must control himself so tightly even around Holmes? The sense of loss Holmes now felt was not quite unexpected, but no less disappointing. He knew all too well he didn't deserve his friend's forgiveness, and very nearly couldn't believe how easily Watson had accepted his presence in his life once more.

Tossing aside his pipe, Holmes quickly rose from his chair to begin pacing the sitting room. His thoughts turning once more to the tight bundle of carefully controlled dread he felt to the depths of his soul. On more than one occasion in the last years he had dreamed of his return to London and his friend, Watson. Almost as many times, he had also woken in a cold sweat fear from nightmares of what he knew he deserved. His mind still beheld a sense of wonder at his friend's astoundingly forgiving nature. The man's courage was matched only by the greatness of his heart. It was one of the things Holmes had admired the most in all their years as partners.

Now Holmes had to question how much damage had been done to that heart. He knew at least some of the blame rested on his own shoulders. Despite Watson's quick, unquestioning forgiveness, Holmes still feared what the next few days may bring. Perhaps once the astonishment and joy of his return wore off Watson would at last confront him with those feelings of abandonment. Maybe then he would have a chance to help relieve his friend of some of what plagued him just behind that mask he now wore.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself for a confrontation he knew must come eventually, Holmes forced these thoughts to the back of his mind for the time being. For today, he would simply allow the both of them to enjoy these hours and see where the day would take them. He knew there was nothing more beneficial he could do for his friend than to be together and let Watson speak of his thoughts in his own time. Until then...

With a mischievous grin and a wicked sparkle in his eye, Holmes turned to this unused bedroom to rummage around for what he knew he'd left behind. Perhaps it was time to practice some of his older personas once more. And what better person to practice his skills upon than the man who knew him best?


	2. Chapter One

_**A/N: **Okay, after taking a look at what I've got to work with starting off, I felt that something of an introduction was needed. Hence, the previous posting of a prologue. I have since discovered a few things that I find disturbing and annoying. _

_One, the overall theme for all five multi-chapter parts I will be posting was entirely subconscious, but made way too much sense for me not to run with it. Two, I had absolutely no idea that when I started with that prologue this would grow into the rather ridiculous monstrosity it has become; even if only in my own mind. The plot bunnies chomping away at my brain while the muses prattled non-stop dialogue through my head day and night was torment enough, apparently. For I have now begun a complete re-writing of what I thought were nearly completed stories ready for posting. _

_So, I begin my formal apology to all my readers here. This may be slower going than I thought as I am starting over from scratch. I refuse to retract what I've already begun as it will continue to drive me insane if I don't do something with it all. At this point in time I've given up all control of the situation to see where this thing is going to end up. I have only the vaguest impressions in mind as to where it is headed, but the muses have decided they will take over from here. _

_Hopefully, from here on, my notes will be considerably shorter and I will have less explaining to do. _

* * *

**Chapter One**

In the days that followed, Holmes again re-acquainted himself with the city he had always considered to be home. Watson seemed to share in his joy and, as the days passed, grew to be more and more the man Holmes remembered. The mild April weather did much to lift both their spirits as they prowled the city together. The slight feelings of tension and expectation that had clouded their initial re-introduction to one another swiftly gave way once more to comfortable silences and companionable conversations. The more days that passed in this way, the less Holmes worried that his dear friend might reject him or confront him about all the things they had thus far left unsaid.

Holmes watched Watson carefully, always looking for some sign of what his friend was thinking or feeling. Repeatedly he found himself disappointed to realize how little he could now read in his friend. Where once he read his friend's mind and heart like an open book, he was more often than not left feeling as though he were staring at a closed and locked cover. Nevertheless, he continued in much the same fashion as Watson himself. He did not allow these things to mar their time together.

During those quiet evenings in which Watson was all too easily persuaded to dine with his friend and share an after-dinner conversation in their old sitting room, Holmes ever so gently attempted to prod his friend for more information about all he had missed during his three-year absence. Each and every time his indirect questions or observations were deflected with a deftness he would not previously have credited Watson. And, each and every time, he saw a mask slip across his friend's features as if guarding some painful secrets as those questions were evaded or deflected. Holmes himself held nothing back in the hopes that his friend would join him in sharing. Not having gained any results after almost two weeks, Holmes finally had to admit that maybe Watson would speak in his own time and pushing further would only produce more frustration.

On one of the last evenings in the month of April, Holmes found himself sitting once more across from Watson as they shared companionable silence occupied by their individual thoughts. Once more turning his attention very subtly to his Watson's expressions and features, he found himself struck by the cloud of weariness and grief that still clung to his dear friend. Only in those unguarded moments when he didn't realize he was being observed would Watson allow his mask to drop entirely. In those times, Holmes was concerned by how very old and tired his friend now appeared.

Deciding it was past time he had broached the subject, Holmes set aside his pipe and gently cleared his throat. As expected, Watson's expression changed immediately to curiosity, the sadness and grief of a moment ago only a vague impression behind dull green eyes.

"I have for some time been considering how to broach a subject with you, Watson," Holmes started hesitantly.

"Yes."

This direct declaration obviously an answer to Holmes' as yet unasked question left the detective momentarily at a loss for words. Watson's eyes glinted in undisguised amusement as he leaned back more comfortably in his chair, quite delighted by Holmes' surprise.

"Of course, I've been considering selling my practice since you returned. And, as I hope you'll welcome my presence in your cases, I had been hoping you would eventually come around to asking," Watson explained almost a little too cheerfully.

Holmes barked a quick laugh eliciting an almost relieved chuckle from Watson in return that warmed his heart. "Of course, dear chap. I am greatly relieved to hear you say that."

"Good, then the matter is settled. Now I just need to find a buyer for my practice and make arrangements for the move. Would you mind terribly if I were to start by spending the night here, tonight?"

"By all means, stay. I believe Mrs. Hudson has had your room aired and ready for you since I returned. I imagine those late night returns to your home and practice are tiresome after a while," Holmes commented innocently.

As he had expected, Holmes watched intently as his friend's face clouded for one heartbeat in something he could not quite define, but was obviously painful for his friend. But, in less time than it took him to register this, the expression changed once more to a grateful smile. He allowed the moment to pass without further comment as they resumed their companionable silence.

Holmes quickly assumed a mask of thoughtfulness as he turned his thoughts inward. He had expected some reaction out of his friend at the mention of his own home, but not quite one so severely pained. Even though Watson had spent nearly all of his waking time with Holmes these last couple of weeks, he had still possessed some trepidation in regards to so bold a request. Truthfully, what right did he really have to ask such a selfish request? He never doubted that his desire to have his friend back at his side full time was his only motivation in all of this. Afterall, Watson had lived alone for some months now and cared for himself without the aid of another.

Yet, there was no denying that he would likely not feel easy in his own mind until Watson was firmly away from that empty house of his own and back where he belonged in his room here on Baker Street. Silently chuckling to himself at the mental image of how sentimental he'd grown during his time away, he filed some of these thoughts away for a later time. For now, it was high time he turned his mind toward more useful purposes. He had satisfied his curiosity to the changes within his city and now desired a more active role in his career.

Holmes needed cases.

Still, there was some part of him that was reluctant to actively take on cases when there was still some question of Watson's involvement. Though he's placed himself at Holmes' disposal almost every single day since his return, he must have his own responsibilities. And, until those were handed off to a new physician upon the sale of his practice, there was always the chance Watson might not have the time to share in those new cases. Sooner or later he would have to return to his patients he had been all but ignoring the past couple of weeks. How, then, was he to involve Watson fully in the meantime?

Holmes very nearly laughed aloud as the solution presented itself so very neatly. As it was, he was glad the minute twitch of his lips into a near smile of devious joy went unnoticed by the man across from him lost in his own thoughts. Carefully Holmes turned his attention back to Watson seeing once more the darkness hovering around the man. Now more certain than ever his plan was the right one, Holmes set about working the plan over in his mind so he could put it into action the next morning without delay.

~o~o~o~

It was only a few days later that Watson abandoned his home as he began moving his few possessions back into their rooms at Baker Street. Holmes couldn't help taking note of the fact that his friend brought with him almost as little as he had left with upon his marriage. However, he felt that commenting on it at this time would only serve to change Watson's mind about this decision; so he kept his peace. A Doctor Verner knocked on the door requesting to meet with Watson almost the same time he had begun to settle in. Somewhat miffed at the timing, Holmes nonetheless followed along as they went to view Watson's now former Kensington practice. It was no small effort on Holmes' part to resist smacking Verner's ankle with his walking stick as the man waxed poetic about what a perfectly charming place it was and how he was already in love with the place and how he looked forward to—

"I'm sorry, dear fellow, my mind was wandering," Holmes replied upon realizing Watson had asked him something.

"I was asking if dinner at Simpson's would be agreeable to you as it would seem my business here is concluded," Watson repeated, eyeing his friend curiously.

"A celebration it is!" Holmes declared enthusiastically, only now noticing the absence of one of his more garrulous distant family members.

As they turned to exit the relatively bare sitting room of what was now officially Watson's previous practice, Holmes noticed a moment of hesitation as his friend's eyes turned toward the upstairs that had once been home to he and his family. There was an almost heart-wrenching expression of grief and loss as he quietly said his good-byes to that chapter of his life. Fearing for his friend's emotional state, Holmes gently took Watson's arm in his own. Watson was so far gone for that few seconds it was as if Holmes ceased to exist once more, not even noticing the contact. Finally, taking a deep breath and nodding to himself, Watson carefully replaced his mask and turned to Holmes with a faint smile.

Sensing that nothing he could say at this point would benefit his friend, Holmes settled for a comforting squeeze of the arm he held. Quietly the two exited the Kensington practice one last time. Stepping once more into the dazzling sunlight of late afternoon, the two walked arm in arm down the sidewalk in search of a cab. Neither felt the need to break the contemplative silence of their own thoughts; but each felt his heart lifting with the released of tension in the beautiful spring day.

"Thank you for coming with me."

For a moment Holmes entirely lost track of his own thoughts as these quiet words spoken with great sincerity rattled around his brain. After a moment's hesitation, he recovered himself enough to formulate an appropriate reply. "Of course, dear chap."

For a moment he almost seemed on the edge of saying something more, though what it could have been Watson never found out as his friend's wandering attention was suddenly diverted to hailing a passing cab. Already feeling the sense of new beginning, Watson turned his thoughts toward nothing more complicated than enjoying a good meal with his dearest friend in one of their old haunts. They passed an unexpectedly delightful evening together as they both enjoyed perhaps a bit more wine than was their custom. Not unlike the night of Holmes' return, they spent the remainder of the night talking animatedly before the cold fireplace enjoying the mild breeze through open windows. It was well into the early hours of the morning that Watson at last called an end to the night and wandered off to his own room leaving Holmes to contemplate further all he had once again learned about his friend.

Holmes was not disappointed, exactly. He had expected some adjustment would be needed as the two of them resumed sharing a living space. But he had not expected Watson's reticence. Watson still felt as closed-off to him as he had that very first morning. Despite having enjoyed the evening immensely, there seemed an almost desperate edge to Watson's attempts at normalcy between them. More noticeable had been the edge of tightly controlled melancholy behind his friend's still somewhat dulled eyes. He began to despair if he would ever have his Watson back. How much of him had been lost these last three years?

Puffing away quietly at his pipe, Holmes allowed his thoughts to take him where they willed. Gradually various plans and ideas formulated on the edges of his consciousness that he hoped would benefit the both of them and bring more of his Watson to the fore. It was some hours later, nearly pre-dawn, that he heard his friend's restless stirring in the bedroom above. With a frown, Holmes glanced toward the sitting room door. Instead of coming down to join him, Watson continued to pace the small confines of his own room. This was a habit Holmes had not seen since their first three years of living together.

Part of him strongly desired to go and check on his friend, but somehow knew instinctively that Watson would not welcome the intrusion. Setting aside his pipe, Holmes reached for the only thing he knew could help his friend at this point. Carefully he caressed the smooth, recently tended violin that he had so dearly missed. Hoping his skills had not rusted during his absence, he began to play a slow, fanciful piece that had been roving around his mind for some time. Afterward, he listened for a moment to the silence throughout the house. Encouraged by the fact that his friend could still be lulled to more restful slumber by this one softer-hearted talent he possessed, Holmes continued playing a variety of slow pieces until the sun began to make its presence known once more across the city.

After lovingly placing his violin back in its case, Holmes resumed his previous seat and pipe. It wasn't until shortly after the sun had risen that he felt more than heard the presence of his friend approaching the sitting room. Surprisingly, he listened as Watson seemed to hesitate just outside the door as if listening to determine whether Holmes had gone to bed or not. Holmes waited patiently but was nearing the point of checking on his friend when the door to the sitting room finally opened. Carefully checking his features into something more neutral than the mild irritation at unfulfilled curiosity, Holmes glanced around as if in surprise.

"I'm sorry, dear fellow," Holmes apologized innocently. "Did I wake you?"

Immediately Holmes could see the fine lines of tension around his friend's eyes as he took in the scene before him. Just as quickly, however, they smoothed upon laying eyes on Holmes seated peacefully in the same place Watson had left him.

"Not at all," Watson waved him off casually, making his way toward his fireside chair. "I simply wished to get an early start on finishing the unpacking."

Not buying this excuse any more than Watson had the idea that his friend had slept, Holmes eyed his friend carefully out of the corner of his vision. There seemed to be a renewed sense of tension about Watson that did not sit well at all. What sort of nightmares his friend could have had to drive him from the restful sleep he obviously deserved, Holmes could only guess. Knowing that none of his usual gentle questioning or prodding would produce any result in this case, Holmes decided to change tactics.

"It is unfortunate you have other plans for the day. I, myself, was inclined to an early morning stroll."

"You didn't sleep at all, then?" Watson queried a little too casually.

Holmes only barely refrained from snorting in surprised derision at his friend's blatant attempt to cover up the fact that he had not slept either. This nearly constant dance of denial was beginning to wear thin. However, he had made up his mind that a change of routine and a walk in the early morning air would likely do both their restless minds some good. Instead of his initial reaction, Holmes simply gave his friend a knowing grin and shook his head as he set aside his pipe and rose from his chair.

Leaving Watson to his own thoughts, he entered his bedroom to refresh himself. Minutes later he re-emerged to find Watson in somewhat better humor as the tossed Holmes a walking stick and turned to exit the sitting room. Satisfied that his plan had already had the desired effect, he followed behind his friend stopping only long enough to let Mrs. Hudson know they were out for a while as she began her morning routines.


	3. Chapter Two

_**A/N: **I am actually going to attempt to do a chapter a day. This way the chapters are short and to-the-point. As I said, this five-part series was originally meant to be eleven snapshots into the lives of random Victorian-age people. Some chapters may be as little as a few hundred words, others might wind up being several thousand. _

_Not really happy with this chapter, but this is how it came out. _

_**Riandra: **Thank you for your reviews. And, yep, hang on tight. I'd like to say I know more about the roller-coaster, but I think it's just getting started._

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Two more restless minds joined the flowing crowds of people through the early morning streets of London. This only truly noticed by a pair of soft brown eyes that followed them for a moment before they were lost in the crowd. Like blood in the arteries, of a living creature the crowds flowed and wove through the streets and sidewalks of the city. These two already lost inside themselves made the losing of themselves in a crowd redundant. Then the mind behind those eyes sparkled hopefully. Those eyes had seen much over the years. Perhaps these two losing themselves in a flow of normalcy would bring them back to themselves.

With this tiny spark of renewed hope, those brown eyes returned to the task at hand humming softly as she worked.

~o~o~o~

For a couple of blocks, Holmes did little more than observe the man beside him he had for so long called friend. There was no denying that he still felt that friendship, and Watson obviously did as well. But there was something inexplicably changed about his friend that made him almost unrecognizable. Holmes had expected a lot of things upon his return. This thin, fragile-appearing man that ever wore a mask even around him was _not_ one of them. Of course, trust can be a fragile thing. And the one thing Watson had never hesitated upon for even a moment was his trust in Holmes.

_ At least until now, it would seem._

Holmes frowned at his own thoughts and wondered if that was what it really came down to. Perhaps he would have to prove himself to Watson before things would change. So far he had done all he could to prod Watson gently into sharing his experiences of the last three years with little effort. If words failed, perhaps action would have more of an affect. Afterall, it was the action of getting the previously near-broken man involved in his cases in the first place that had bonded them.

Besides, he'd already spent weeks re-establishing himself with his various contacts, perusing the daily papers, and scavenging recent records for even a hint of an interesting case. Of course he'd decided on his morning walk with an ulterior motive in mind. Not surprisingly, it didn't take Watson long to determine their course as he followed alongside his friend. Yet Holmes still felt the need to state the obvious, if for no other reason than to gauge Watson's reaction.

"Hoping to find a case?" Watson queried, seeming to come back from wherever his thoughts had taken him.

To this Holmes nodded, again watching his friend's reactions closely. Once more the feeling rose up in him that he was missing something-something important. Watson's mask had fallen into place the moment they exited the house at Baker Street. However, upon mentioning Scotland Yard, Watson appeared almost uncomfortable. Holmes was aware the man had begun taking on more and more duties as a police surgeon in recent months. He couldn't help wonder why it was Watson seemed almost reluctant.

Putting aside these thoughts, Holmes quickened his pace and Watson followed dutifully along. Having kept busy dividing his attention between Watson and re-acquainting himself with all of London in such a short period of time, Holmes had been able to avoid that sinking feeling of spiraling into a black abyss that usually gripped him in those times without a case. But, given his current lack of clientele, he wondered how much longer things could go on this way. Money was, of course, not an issue for him any longer. Now he just felt that both he and Watson needed something more to do in their lives than dance around each other.

Holmes never hesitated as he marched right up to the door and into the Scotland Yard main office. For a moment there was a hush as people began to notice just who it was that had walked in their door. Even as Holmes smiled theatrically he was very disappointed to see so many faces turn back to whatever they were doing after a moment of staring. He was shocked to realize how thoroughly he had just been dismissed in their minds.

_Snubbed._

"We'd heard you'd come back," one of the less familiar inspectors drawled, leaning lazily on a nearby desk. "And here we thought Lestrade was just needing a holiday."

"Well, as you can see by the arrest of Colonel Moran-"

Before he could finish several of the nearby constables and inspectors had caught sight of the quiet man who had come in behind the detective and stood unobtrusively in the background.

"Doctor Watson!" one of them called happily. "I hadn't thought to see you around here again."

A moment later several others had come up to shake the doctor's hand and greet him like an old friend. Holmes was all but forgotten as they crowded in toward Watson. Miffed by this, Holmes tapped his walking stick impatiently.

"Well well well, Mr. Holmes has finally decided to grace us with his presence," came an all too familiar voice frosted in icy tones from behind the detective.

"And a good morning to you, Lestrade," Holmes returned, ignoring the icy tones.

To this Lestrade just sniffed before turning to Watson with a warm smile and friendly handshake. "Good morning, Doctor. Do you mind if I have a word with you in private?"

For only a moment Watson's eyes strayed toward Holmes before he nodded his agreement and followed the inspector a little way down the nearby corridor to a rather sad excuse for an office. Though Holmes had no idea what they were discussing, he had not missed the warmth in Lestrade's greeting or the friendly, easy smile Watson had returned. For the first time in his life, Holmes found himself feeling the stirrings of jealousy. Crushing them ruthlessly into non-existence, he turned his attention back to the original purpose for this visit. Obviously he wasn't likely to get anything out of Lestrade. Perhaps there were other inspectors around here who still had an interest in furthering their careers with a little quiet help.

~o~o~o~

Closing the door behind them, Lestrade didn't even bother to offer the doctor a seat, as he would have to uncover one somewhere underneath the mountains of paperwork stacked everywhere. Watson stood hesitantly fairly certain of the subject as Lestrade pulled something out of a desk drawer.

"I am given to understand that you resigned as back-up police surgeon and sold your practice," Lestrade got right to the point.

"Yes," Watson confirmed, somewhat uncomfortable. He knew sooner or later he would likely have to confront this issue, and really was not in a mood for it. "It seemed the best course of action with Holmes' return."

Holding up a hand to stop him, Lestrade cut in softly, "You don't have to explain yourself. The moment I confirmed he was back, I knew this would happen. This isn't about your duties, John. Your duties as police surgeon and responsibilities to Mr. Holmes are not mutually exclusive. Should you choose to continue to help us, as Mr. Holmes has in the past, it would be welcome. But that's not why I wanted to speak with you.

"You returned your credentials and submitted your resignation. While I appreciate the formality you've always observed, it was not necessary." Reaching out, he handed Watson back his papers. "You're one of us, now. And that's not going to change. We'll not demand more of your time than you can give, and you know that. Of course, we also expect you to show up from time to time at the Dancing Duck for a drink or two, otherwise the lads will have to come looking for you. Mrs. Hudson might not appreciate half of the Yard showing up unannounced."

To this Watson chuckled, again grateful for the older inspector. This was not the first time such threats had been made. There was a reason he'd been without a maid in recent months, but that was a topic they both hoped to avoid.

"Thank you, Giles."

"None needed," Lestrade waved him off casually as he opened the door again.

~o~o~o~

Holmes, meanwhile, had spent a frustrating few minutes attempting to gain the attention of any of the inspectors nearby. He was less than amused by the dismissal and rebuffs he received. Whatever reception he had hoped for upon his return, this was most definitely _not_ it. He was again tapping his walking stick impatiently while scanning the available personnel when he heard Lestrade's door close once more. Though he had no idea what had passed between them, his keen ears quickly tuned in to what he could now catch above the din of activity around them.

"...and all. I can't agree with the company you keep these days, Doctor. But, you are still willing to associate with rat-faced, bungling Yarders, I shouldn't complain overmuch."

A moment later Holmes gave up all pretence at being otherwise occupied and stared openly as Watson laughed openly and heartily. No signs of discomfort or embarrassment marred his face as he laughed deeply in such a way Holmes had despaired of ever hearing again from his friend. Watson's response however had anyone within earshot laughing right along with Lestrade.

"So long as you don't mind associating with a boot-licking sidekick!"

"It was good to see you again, Doctor," Lestrade said warmly with a firm handshake. Turning to Holmes, he threw the detective a frosty glare and a not before turning away to return to his office.

Still grinning to himself, Watson followed a darkly frowning Holmes out the door. When Watson still refused to speak, lost in his own thoughts, Holmes prodded him verbally.

"Sidekick?" he all but growled.

Watson started as if only just realizing Holmes was even there before his face turned a rather startling red. "Sorry, Holmes, my mind was wandering. Did you have any luck finding a case?"

Holmes only just checked a sigh of impatience at Watson's obvious evasion. Not giving Watson the opportunity to change the subject, he continued to glare. "No."

Finally Watson sighed before smiling once more and shaking his head as if to himself. He should have known this would come up sooner or later; especially once Holmes began reading back-issues of some of the local papers. "I believe the term used was 'that busybody amateur's boot-licking sidekick'. It was a deliberately incomplete quote printed last year by a man who no longer works for that paper. But they were Lestrade's own words."

After what he had just seen between the two, Holmes couldn't help but scowl. "His own words?"

Watson, still in good humor took Holmes by the arm leading them back toward the direction of Baker Street and breakfast as he continued his explanation. "It was deliberately left unfinished in a further attempt to discredit me. There was much going on at the time and Lestrade was caught unawares with several others at the Dancing Duck one night after a few too many rounds in celebration of the end of a case. I declined to join them and someone saw the opportunity to exploit the situation. Don't look so grim, Holmes. It's been dealt with and the offender will likely never make the same mistake again.

"Come on, old chap. I could use some breakfast, and maybe you'll have better luck finding a case in the morning papers."

Despite his natural curiosity in wanting to know exactly what had transpired to bring about such a title, Holmes allowed the line of questioning to drop. He would find out later from other sources. At the moment, Watson's mood was infectious and he felt he would do better devoting his time to finding them both a case. With a lighter step he strolled along beside his friend in the direction of Baker Street, that genuine laugh still ringing in his ears.


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Following Holmes' rather chilly reception at Scotland Yard, the two companions seemed to fall into a much more comfortable routine. Instead of feeling like two strangers with distantly shared experiences now feeling each other out as new flatmates all over again, they returned to something of an amiable companionship. Holmes ceased to pester Watson about all the things he evaded in their discussions and Watson's mood began to improve considerably. The one thing that did draw his attention once more to the changes in his friend was the communiqué he had received from Verner less than a week after the sale of Watson's practice detailing how little of a practice his friend really had left.

Only then did Holmes realize that Watson had all but ceased carrying his medical bag. Though he made no comment upon this to his friend, he did spend a day or two satisfying his curiosity. He swiftly found that aside from a few persistent hypochondriac regulars, Watson had had almost no patients in the last year. He was not volunteering his services at clinics or hospitals. He had even ceased his charity rounds in the poorer sections of London. For all intents and purposes, Watson had walked away from the calling of his profession. He could easily have found ways of broaching the subject without giving away his part in the sale of Watson's practice. But, after observing his friend's returning health and good humor, he felt it was probably best to let it go.

More disturbingly to Holmes was the fact that he could not uncover what it was Watson now did with his time. His friend had published their final case together just prior to his wife's death. There had been nothing since then. He had taken up the role as occasional police surgeon doing autopsies more than a year before that time, and had all but ceased since Holmes' return. Not unlike the Watson he had met all those years ago after being invalided out of his military career, he rarely left the house of his own accord.

In the weeks that followed, Holmes picked up a number of petty cases that were easily solved in a day or two without much thought. Each time he walked away afterward feeling more and more unfulfilled. The call of the cocaine bottle he avoided only because he knew another small case would come along soon enough. It was just enough to keep him from falling into a black abyss of his own hellish thoughts, but nothing more. Even more galling was the case where Watson solved the murder of a young fop in a matter of hours simply through the use of Holmes' own methods during an autopsy. It was rather heartening to see his friend at work, even if for such gruesome purposes. He felt Watson was wasting his talents as a healer on such work, but could not deny the usefulness of his knowledge.

Lestrade's gratitude in the case casually brushed off by the doctor as having been no more than his duty. Meanwhile, he continued to regard Holmes as something best not stepped on for fear of acquiring an unpleasant stench. The tension was something he had not anticipated. However, the lack of cases coming from that quarter only served to make the few interactions with the Yarders even more frustrating. While they welcomed Watson's help whenever and wherever he could provide such, they seemed to want to avoid Holmes whenever possible. It would seem even his helpful hints dropped from time to time in a carefully casual manner were treated with little more enthusiasm than as a last resort.

Somewhere in all of these seemingly endless days, Watson had again taken up his pen for more than just a day or two of case notes. Holmes stalked into the sitting room angrily after yet another disappointing case solved within minutes of viewing the crime scene to find his friend writing away happily. Recalling some recent experiences, Holmes very nearly slammed his bedroom door as he retrieved his dressing gown before returning to the sitting room. So engrossed was Watson in whatever he was writing, that he hadn't even acknowledged his friend's presence yet. Taking up his pipe, Holmes growled something under his breath best not repeated.

"I take it the case was not what you were hoping for then, old chap?" Watson queried after finally placing his pen aside.

"No," Holmes snapped, flinging himself into the chair.

Watson remained quiet in his own chair at his desk sensing there was more Holmes would like to say. However, he was disappointed when the detective instead turned his focus inward and appeared to forget his presence altogether. After a couple of minutes, he quietly slipped out of the sitting room in the hopes of getting a fresh pot of tea from Mrs. Hudson. Minutes later he returned to find Holmes unmoved. Hoping his friend's obviously dark mood would lift itself, he set aside his writing for the night. It had been an older case of lesser importance, anyway. Just something for him to practice with until a more worthy case came along. Nonetheless, he had been delighted to have a reason at all to take up his writing once again.

"More of those ridiculous tales again?"

Watson, in the process of putting away his papers at his desk, froze for a moment his heart dropping into his feet. Holmes with his back turned did not see his friend's reaction.

"Just something to pass the time since you were busy on a case, Holmes," he returned in a carefully neutral voice.

Holmes humphed a reply in blue-gray smoke. "Waste of time."

Not sure of Holmes had been referring to his writing or the case itself, Watson carefully kept his expression neutral as he took his seat across the fireplace from Holmes.

"The criminal world of London will soon know you are back and will likely give you plenty to occupy your time," he commented, taking up his own pipe.

"You would think that knowing I am dead would make them less wary, not less creative," Holmes mused darkly. "It would seem without such influences as Professor Moriarty, there are no creative minds left in the criminal world."

Relaxing once more into a familiar subject, Watson eyed his friend in amusement. "So all the crimes you solved were the distant machinations of the Professor?"

"No, but a great many of the more interesting ones were orchestrated by that great mastermind. Jewelry thefts, wandering historians, missing dogs!" Holmes flung the few correspondences he'd received in recent days into the cold fireplace. "I knew my career had hit a crisis. This is only proving it!"

"What about Mycroft, has he nothing of interest for you?" Watson queried noticing a less recent, but familiar envelope.

"Ha! His only desire is to ensure that I am firmly ensconced once again here in London and not making a nuisance of myself internationally. I don't think he has quite yet forgiven me for making him wear black, as it was never really his color."

Familiar with the superficially detached attitude and mostly expected brotherly animosity, Watson could not help a grin that crossed his face. He could almost hear Mycroft Holmes' voice berating his brother for the even temporary change in his wardrobe as it would have upset his routine to have to visit his tailor out of season. However, this infectious smile has served its purpose. Upon seeing his friend relaxed and smiling once more, Holmes found himself relaxing as well. The stirrings of his own dark thoughts once again held at bay by less artificial means as they dove head-long into a conversation of Mycroft's initial reaction at learning his little brother was still alive.


	5. Chapter Four

**_A/N:_**_Still not entirely happy with where this is headed. But, I started it, so I'll at least finish it._

* * *

**Chapter Four**

_In all the numerous cases that have been presented to Mr. Holmes, this—_

Watson started as the slamming of the sitting room door announced Holmes' return from what he guessed to be a less than fulfilling day. He had said nothing to Watson that morning as he entered the sitting room, obviously up for most of the night. He had downed the better part of a pot of coffee and was swiftly out the door before Watson had had a chance to even wake up enough to realize he must have a case.

After enjoying his breakfast and papers in a more leisurely fashion without Holmes' conversation and energy to provoke him into a more energetic morning, he had cleaned up the widely spread papers all over their sitting room. For all his efforts in trying to divine what it was Holmes was working on through the perusal of said papers, he'd still come up empty-handed by early afternoon. Left with little more to do and not knowing when Holmes would return, he had sat down to work on more of his writing with undisguised joy.

Watson could not remember a time since working on _A Study in Scarlet _that his writing had given him so much pleasure. Holmes' initial disapproval had taken some of the joy out of it, but he was determined then. After Holmes' death—

_Disappearance! _he reminded himself sternly, pushing away the stabbing feelings of guilt and grief.

He had continued writing as a way to keep his dear friend alive, for himself and the public. He knew the world had lost a great man that day at the Falls. Reluctant as he was to deal with even his own feelings on the matter, there came a point when he could put it off no longer. With the death of his wife looming closer by the day, he knew he had to close that chapter. Watson had not expected to be alive long enough to publish _The Final Problem_ after Mary's passing. Despite his own grief, he owed it to his friend to publish the truth.

Checking a sigh, Watson set aside his pen as he turned to eye his friend. Holmes by now had slung his hat, walking stick, and other various possessions to the far corners of the sitting room with more violence than usual. Without a doubt he was in a downright vile temper. His scowl was such that men had been known to cower before it. He puffed away furiously on his pipe, his untied dressing gown waving behind him as he paced up and down the sitting room like a bloodthirsty feline waiting for a chance to pounce on something. His growling, dark mutterings did little to dispel that image as Watson watched him for a moment.

After a few moments waiting for Holmes to finally acknowledge his presence, Watson finally decided he needed to do something to help break the man's mood.

"The case is not going well, I take it?" he prodded gently.

Holmes pacing and growling stopped so quickly Watson wondered if he hadn't walked into an invisible wall. The glare Holmes turned his direction, however, made him feel as if the air had just cooled several degrees.

"There is no case!" Holmes finally, snapped. "How can there be a case when I'm dead? Dead men don't solve crimes!"

Taken aback by this statement and the fiery temper flaring in his friend's eyes. Watson remained where he was at his desk, looking up at his friend in mute concern.

"Thanks to your widely read account of my death, I am now an imposter!" he continued his pacing as he began to elaborate upon his day. "The humiliation of having to convince every person I meet is bad enough. Being forced out of White Hall and bodily removed from the Diogenes-"

"Really, Holmes," Watson started, trying to defuse the situation. "I never thought—"

"That is the problem exactly! You don't think! You just write out whatever you believe you and other buffoons would like to read. And then you make them public! No regard for the science—"

"Now, Holmes—"

Flinging himself into his chair by the empty fireplace, Holmes very clearly turned his back on his friend. "None of that, Watson. I will hear no more of your ridiculous justifications for publishing such twaddle. Those romantic tales of deduction flatly..."

By this point Watson was no longer hearing whatever it was Holmes had continued growling out heatedly. Somewhere in the back of his mind the key words were logged and filed away, but his thoughts had turned too far inward. Already his eyes had turned back toward the latest page he had blotched when Holmes had thrown the sitting room door open with such violence. He never even noticed the shaking of his hands as he carefully covered up these last sentences.

He had always known that Holmes disapproved of the style in which he wrote. They had argued on the matter with no little violence on more than one occasion in the past. Hurtful words were slung by both parties, forgiveness shared, and then the situation never really resolved. Ultimately, they had simply agreed it would never be a topic of discussion beyond what Watson was allowed to publish and what was to be kept secret. Even then, it was with the greatest disdain that Holmes gave his permission.

Hearing now the seemingly endless stream of Holmes' obviously pent-up opinions on the subject left Watson devastated. For so many years he had held out some small hope that Holmes might come around and even appreciate his efforts. He hoped that with enough time and practice, he might produce something even Holmes would approve of in his own fashion.

"...disgusting..."

Now Watson wondered how he could have been so wrong. He had so dearly looked forward to the addition of new cases—new adventures—they would share to add to his collection for publication.

"...meaningless..."

Had Holmes always felt this way and he just refused to acknowledge his friend's feelings upon the matter?

"...florid..."

Why had he never listened before? What gave him the right to take the great works of his friend and make them something so mundane?

"...revolting romanticism..."

Consumed by the realization of how much damage he had done through such a simple pleasure, Watson wanted to sink into the floor.

"...grotesquely exaggerated..."

Staring blindly down at the stack of papers upon his desk, he slowly began to grow numb. This numbness was something he had come to welcome in recent years. The horror of understanding just what kind of opinion Holmes had of him and his writing had left no doubts in his mind of where he now stood.

The sudden silence in the room brought Watson back to his surroundings with an almost painful swiftness. Without even realizing what he was doing, he had turned to find the only visible part of his friend in the chair by the fire. Holmes still had not turned around to face him, for which Watson was grateful beyond words. This gave him a moment to put away what he had been thinking and feeling behind that wall of numbness that graced him from time to time. Taking advantage of the moment, he gathered his remaining papers and stood.

"Very well, then," he offered quietly into the silence, not certain Holmes would even hear him at this point. "Good night, Holmes."

Holmes grunted something unintelligible around the stem of his pipe. The roar of silence and numbness filling his ears, Watson quietly exited the sitting room for his own bedroom. There, he gathered every case he had written up in recent weeks and stacked them neatly on his desk.

And then he waited.

~o~o~o~

Finally emerging from his own dark thoughts a couple hours later long enough to take note of his surroundings, Holmes realized he was alone in the sitting room. The sun had only recently fallen below the horizon as the din of the street outside the sitting room had not yet abated. For a moment he considered. Before giving himself much of a chance to think about it, he sought retreat in the one thing he knew would give him what he needed now. Taking the Moroccan case with him, he locked himself in his bedroom.

Mrs. Hudson could only sigh in resignation as the dinner she had prepared was once again given to those less fortunate. Doctor Watson had said he was tired and wished to rest. Holmes had not even answered her knocking on his door. It was not as if she hadn't heard Holmes' return or the ensuing argument. In the early morning hours before sunrise, she could have wept when Doctor Watson smiled at her warmly as if nothing had happened. She had heard him scraping the ashes out of the fire grate the night before.


	6. Chapter Five

_**A/N **I am still trying to work out how the "snapshot" piece about two men arguing in public turned into this monstrosity. lol_

_A great big thank you to **Riandra** for having brought my attention to a mistake I have since corrected in this updated version!_

* * *

**Chapter Five**

_"Holmes, this has got to stop. You know as well as I do that this is too much."_

_ "Too much of what?" _

_ "It's cocaine again, isn't it? Or was it the morphine, this time?"_

_ "Ah, that again."_

_ "Yes. _That._ Don't think I haven't noticed-"_

_ "It's a wonder you notice anything the way you wander around like a shade with little substance. Or, perhaps zephyr would be a better analogy, as you drift without direction from one—"_

_ "This is not about _me,_ Holmes. You are playing with something-"_

_ "Oh give over, Watson. Why don't you run along and go play with your little Yarder friends and leave me to my work?"_

_ "That's my point. You have cases, almost constantly now. For what reason-"_

_ "Enough! I have better things to do than occupy my time entertaining you."_

_ "Holmes-"_

_ "Leave me be!"_

_ "Holmes-"_

For what felt like the hundredth time that night, Watson attempted to banish the ghosts of this argument from earlier that night. As he lay in bed sleepless, he wondered which was the lesser of two evils. He knew Holmes was using the drugs in excess again, not unlike years past. And turning these painful little arguments over and over in his head ensured he was likely not to sleep. But his sleep had been more than a little restless of late, as the ghosts of other more painful things refused to leave him be.

In the weeks since he had promised silently to Holmes that he would never again write up another case for publication, things had not been as peaceful as he had hoped. Though there was nothing he could do about what had already been published, he had spent days afterward trying to rectify the situation. At one point he found himself back in Lestrade's office. While the man had yet to forgive Holmes for whatever grudge it was he seemed to hold, he had at least assured Watson that he would do what little they could. Quietly the Yarders had spread the word high and low that Sherlock Holmes was not, in fact, dead.

The reaction was more than he could have hoped. Within days of his meeting with Lestrade, cases began to flood in via telegram, letter, and the odd visitor at their door. Glad that his efforts had produced at least some result, he had inadvertently slipped to Holmes how this had come about. His friend's reaction was one he could not have anticipated. The detective had sneered at Watson and "his little friends" having collaborated behind his back before retreating once more to his bedroom with the Moroccan case. Disheartened, Watson had taken himself off to his own bedroom where he spent yet another sleepless night.

Thankfully, the flood of cases that followed had kept the both of them busy almost day and night for a time. Still, the only times his restless mind would allow him sleep were those times in between cases when exhaustion overtook him. Kicking disconsolately at his covers, Watson rolled over yet again. He closed his eyes once more and stubbornly ignored the fading ghosts of Holmes splayed out laconically in his chair beside the fireplace. The glassy grey eyes dulled with drugs as his swirling thoughts turned inward-

"Watson."

The knock on the door that followed this word was brief, but still left Watson no time to acknowledge them before the door was flung open. He turned his head to find Holmes standing in the doorway all but bouncing on his toes with anticipation.

"It's time we were off, old man. There are thieves to catch!"

"What-"

"No time, Watson. I'll answer all your questions on the way to the docks."

With that, Holmes was gone; likely back down to the sitting room. Never once did he doubt that Watson would soon join him. Having no idea which one of the three cases Holmes was currently working on that had him in such a state, Watson swiftly dressed and stuffed his gun into his pocket before descending the stairs.

Not surprisingly, he found the sitting room in a state that would have likely had Mrs. Hudson fuming were she awake to see it. Holmes was pacing back and forth across the relatively open areas not littered with debris from his night's work in a state of some agitation. Glancing at the clock to find it was only a little after two in the morning, Watson presented himself as ready.

"Ah, good man. Let us be off."

Suiting his words, Holmes brushed past Watson and headed down the stairs, barely pausing to open the front door. Frowning at his friend's not entirely unusual display of energetic agitation, Watson followed. Nearly breathless with anticipation, Holmes explained the situation regarding the disappearance of some crates from a warehouse. Watson only vaguely remembered Holmes glancing at a telegram pleading his help some days ago. He had thought Holmes had chucked it into the pile of less interesting potential cases as he picked up three others. This, apparently was a fourth he had not noticed Holmes had been investigating. Taking in all the details Holmes was willing to give him at this time, Watson hardly noticed the passage of time as they traversed the city.

When Holmes at last stopped outside of an abandoned warehouse some distance from the local docks, Watson gazed with some surprise at the area. He reminded himself of the gun in his pocket. He followed silently behind his companion as they made their way around the back of the building an in through a broken window. The scent of rot and decay made Watson wonder that the place was still standing at all. Knowing at this point, Holmes would answer no more questions, he crouched down beside his friend as they took cover behind some crumbling crates covered in fungus.

"As you see, Watson, there is the basement door," Holmes pointed out a vague outline off in the darkness. "And it is there we will find the missing statuary."

Beside him, Watson could feel Holmes all but quivering. Finally he made the connection as Holmes fidgeted yet again as if trying to find a comfortable position. Before he could voice his thoughts, however, the sound of numerous footsteps made them both freeze in place as he carefully slipped the gun out of his pocket.

"Yes, there seems to be a few more than anticipated," Holmes whispered quietly. "No matter, we should be able to handle this quite nicely."

Eyeing the nearly dozen large men making their way through the unstable building, Watson frowned darkly. "A _few_? Holmes, there's at least_ ten_ out there!" he whispered fiercely.

"Easily dealt with-"

"You do have Scotland Yard or at least a few constables outside, then?" Watson asked warningly.

To this Holmes only waved as if ridding himself of an unpleasant odor. "No need-"

"Holmes, this is madness!" Watson hissed angrily, transferring the gun to his left hand. "We should at least alert a-"

"They are already-"

"No! You are letting that drug cloud your judgment," Watson said vehemently, gripping Holmes coat. "We should leave now and come back with-"

"I'm not about to let them get away and have to start this whole-"

Neither had realized just how raised their voices had become until Watson caught the glimmer of movement behind his friend. Instinctively he dove forward, knocking Holmes backward into the crates shattering them. The explosion of pain down his left shoulder and back left him stunned for a moment as Holmes pushed them both out of the way of the next blow. Even as Watson became more fully aware of the giant of a man wielding a club standing above him, Holmes rolled again and disappeared into the darkness. Alone with his attacker, his left arm numb and useless, it was all Watson could do to avoid the thunderous impacts of the club swinging all around him in the darkness.

In seconds he managed to regain his feet, minus the gun that had disappeared after the initial impact of the club that had left his shoulder and arm screaming in pain. Ignoring the pain, he faced off with the club-wielding brute waiting for a chance to retaliate with his good arm. He was operating purely on instinct and adrenaline at this point, only vaguely wondering where Holmes had gone off to. Even as he rolled out of the way of another deady swipe at his head, the sound of crashing and cursing answered his unasked question. The brute, distracted by the sudden noise gave Watson an opening he couldn't have planned better. Summoning all his strength, he launched himself at the man's middle bowling them both over.

This second explosion in his shoulder very nearly accomplished what the behemoth had not. Even as the darkness danced around the edges of Watson's vision, he carried through with his maneuver by scrambling toward the hand that held the club. A moment later he found himself again impacting a questionably solid object as the man had used his other hand to fling him away like an annoying gnat. Struggling to regain his breath, Watson stumbled to his feet once more. Thankfully his opponent was slower in rising, giving him a chance to see the danger. Even as he dove sideways to avoid the club yet again, the swift movement of a shadow caught his attention.

Preparing himself to dive toward the off-balance giant, he only barely managed to stop himself as the brute toppled over in a heap, the club falling from nerveless fingers. Behind him stood a gleefully smiling Holmes lowering a club of his own. For nearly a minute, Watson struggled to breathe raggedly through the pain as his mind caught up to what had just happened. Half the room away two more bodies lay motionless in the light of a lamp. The cellar door now rattled with the pounding of numerous fists and the muffled curses blistered the air.

Taking all of this in, Watson only barely repressed a shudder as he realized how badly this could have gone. Obviously Holmes had managed to trap most of the men in the cellar with the stolen statuary. But of the three remaining men, one had all the strength of a giant and a club that could be as deadly as any gun. The other two had obviously wielded knives, as he could already spot several small tears in Holmes' clothing he knew would likely reveal gashes of varying depth.

Holmes danced around for a time ensuring all the men were safely unconscious and began binding them with various bits of rope and other debris. He barely spared Watson a glance as he quietly regained some of his composure and began to search around for his gun. Finding the lost object beneath the remains of the shattered mouldering crates, he turned to find Holmes almost finished with his task.

The argument obviously forgotten, Holmes gave a satisfied smile to his friend and was off to find a constable before Watson could protest. Alone with the three unconscious men, Watson kept a firm grip on his revolver in his one good hand. Mentally taking stock of his injuries, he knew he was going to be in for a rough couple of weeks. It was difficult to assess the extent of the damage to his left shoulder as it alternated between throbbing painfully and stinging almost-numbness from the shock. Carefully he attempted to move his arm and hand nearly sighing in relief to realize nothing was broken or dislocated.

When Holmes returned several minutes later, Watson faded into the background relieved to let Holmes handle things. Still subtly testing his arm and flexing his shoulder, he watched the scene devolve into barely controlled chaos as Scotland Yard inspectors began flooding the scene. He had already pocketed his gun was watching Holmes animatedly discussing the whole case with some of the less-than-pleased inspectors. He hissed in pain when a voice beside him made him start violently.

"Steady, John," Lestrade spoke soothingly. "It's only me."

Recovering himself, Watson turned to confront the Yarder's questioning gaze filled with concern. "Giles, I didn't see you come in."

Lestrade snorted. "With Sherlock Holmes on the scene, I'm easy to miss. Oh don't bother, Doctor. I'm just getting too old to be knocked up out of bed this late at night."

Having his protestations cut off, Watson was at a loss for anything better to say and so he let silence descend. For a moment the two of them watched the detective in his animated descriptions of the crime and his deductions from their position in the shadows. Watson frowned deeply seeing the spots of blood now showing through the clothing that covered what he suspected were rather deep gashes made from the knives. He knew it was only a matter of time before the cocaine wore off and Holmes would begin to feel his injuries.

"Are you alright, Doctor?" Lestrade's voice broke into his thoughts once again.

"Well enough," he sighed.

"How bad?"

For a moment Watson contemplated ignoring the question or pretending he didn't know what the man was talking about. However, that chilly tone was one he'd become all too familiar with in recent months and demanded an answer. His own loyalty to Holmes was unquestionable. Yet he knew the Yarder well, and that he was genuinely concerned for him. That seemingly simple and straightforward question carried so much behind it that Watson never doubted how much the man suspected. It would be an insult to both his intelligence and professional standing for him to prevaricate now.

Minding the throbbing in both his shoulder and now his head, Watson finally turned to face the inspector. "It was, perhaps, not our best course of action. But Holmes felt it was necessary."

"Of course he did. And, if I'm not mistaken, you are _both_ going to be feeling it in the morning," Lestrade stated, throwing the detective a frosty glare as he approached.

"Well, Watson, ready to leave the clean-up to the official force?" Holmes queried, cheerfully ignoring the inspector's glare.

Wearily, Watson only nodded, already dismissed in Holmes' mind. Turning back to Lestrade, he was startled to see the depth of concern in the man's eyes.

"I know I've been saying this for years, and you never accept; but you _do_ know you're welcome to come by any time, John," Lestrade said shaking Watson's hand.

Touched, as always, by this man's constant gestures of friendship Watson graced him with an almost grin. "I know."

Obviously disappointed at the quiet rebuff he'd come to expect, Lestrade only squeezed his hand warmly. "Take care of yourself, Doctor. If Cee finds I let you keep going like this, you know what she'll do to me."

The unexpected chuckle this elicited from Watson carried them out the door as he strode off limping after Holmes.


	7. Chapter Six

_**A/N: **This one is for **Riandra.** Thanks for all the awesome reviews. Don't worry, it gets worse. ;-)_

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**Chapter Six**

As the summer season began to draw to and end and the temperatures began to drop, Holmes found himself once more seated before the warm glow of a fire in their sitting room. He was surprised to realize for a change that he had nothing more pressing on his mind than how to pass the evening. The string of cases that had kept him frantically busy throughout the summer months had finally begun to taper off. Not entirely disappointed by this present lack, he found his mind one more returning to a subject that always seemed just out of reach. The subject himself sat only a few feet away at his writing desk, which had seen surprisingly little use of late.

He had formed many conclusions regarding Watson's behavior these last few months. His original assumption of simply needing work to keep them occupied had been mostly correct. Yet, he couldn't help but feel some sense of disappointment that the man he knew as his friend had not fully returned. Carefully changing positions so as not to draw attention to himself, Holmes eyed Watson carefully out of the corner of his vision. The underlying darkness that marred every smile, every laugh—and so few they were!-never faded or dissipated. He still seemed so physically diminished, but never lacking in stamina. He had yet to take up any medical practices beyond tending their own injuries, and had all but ceased writing anything more elaborate than case notes.

"Is there something you need, Holmes?" Watson asked quietly, never taking his attention off the red case journal in which he was currently scribbling.

Surprised his friend had noticed what he thought was subtle observation, Holmes flashed a grin for a moment before expounding upon his thoughts.

"I was starting to get the impression you were not writing anymore."

Watson's writing hand froze for the merest heartbeat before continuing. "That is because I am not."

Holmes stared for a moment at his friend as his mind suddenly began to leap into action. That voice so utterly devoid of emotion set off alarms in his head as he knew he was treading on dangerous ground. Watson never even looked up as he finished whatever it was he had been writing and closed the journal.

"You need not concern yourself on that subject." Watson turned to face him, green eyes glittering dully in the light of the fire. "I'm sorry. I cannot take back what has already been done, but I assure you it will never happen again."

Wide eyed with surprise, Holmes' racing mind could not even begin to formulate a reply as Watson placed the case journal alongside the others and rose from his desk. Holmes eyes never strayed from his friend as he took up his pipe and tea before settling himself in the chair opposite.

"Then what is it you intend for all of those case notes?" Holmes finally asked, after Watson had settled himself.

"That is up to you." Watson threw him a glare in warning. "There is no need to discuss it further at this time."

Rare was the time Watson so very bluntly put an end to a subject. Numerous questions and arguments presented themselves, but Holmes could not quite find a voice for them in this case. Something in the Doctor's obviously tense demeanor warned him of pushing too far. Nodding as if to himself, he saw Watson's barely concealed sigh of relief as each resumed their own activities.

After a few minutes, Holmes felt the restless stirring of his swirling thoughts affecting his fingers as they began to tap out various melodies. Catching sight of Watson's eyebrow furrowing in annoyance, he quickly set aside his pipe to take up his violin. Within minutes he was no longer aware of the present as he lost himself in his thoughts. Only upon realizing the sitting room was now empty did he wonder what it was he had been playing. His thoughts had taken him so many places, he could not recall.

But the one thing he was certain of at this point was that he had made a grave mistake. Somewhere in his mental wanderings he recalled Watson's reaction all those long weeks ago when he had ranted rather unpleasantly about his difficulties in convincing people he was not an imposter. His own brother had done little to help in that area, being too greatly amused by the results. Watson, he knew, had at least found a solution that worked quite nicely. And Holmes had only sneered at the man.

Most vividly, however, he recalled Watson's complete lack of reaction to such abuse.

Taking up his pipe once more, Holmes resumed his seat beside the nearly non-existent fire. Always before Watson had defended his writing, even pointed out repeatedly how it had helped them in the past. Usually this degenerated into some rather colorful language on both their parts before separating themselves for a time and returning to offer apologies. Thinking back on the last few months, Holmes realized that Watson had simply taken himself from the room. He could not recall any apologies offered or accepted. The next morning was as if nothing had ever happened.

Holmes scowled darkly into the softly glowing embers of his pipe. Watson hadn't ignored him, obviously. In the last few months he could not recall a single time when the man had done more than argue against his use of cocaine or morphine. And, despite the heat in those words, he consistently backed off with little more than a hollow-eyed glare and a quietly worded farewell as he left the sitting room.

Not for the first time he found himself wondering what had become of the man he called friend. How much was left of the man that had once prowled the streets of London beside him, his gun ever-ready to back them up? How much grief, loss, and pain did it take to break such a strong spirit? What part had he, himself, played in the decline of the person Watson had once been?

Frustrated, disgusted, and thoroughly sick of the subject, Holmes flung his pipe onto the mantle and returned to the one comfort that had yet to fail him.

~o~o~o~

Above the sitting room Watson rolled over yet again upon hearing the closing of Holmes' bedroom door. He imagined he could almost hear the key turning in the lock, already knowing what his friend would be doing next. After catching himself for the third time that night subtly removing the—thankfully-unnoticed evidence of tears gathering in his eyes, he had fled the sitting room to listen to those heartbreakingly melancholic tones from the privacy of his own room. Though he had no idea what had driven Holmes to playing such sorrowful pieces, he could not deny their effect on him. Some things were still too raw, too closely kept in the deepest recesses of his heart and soul. Denying these things access to the open expression they craved, Watson banished the memories of summer days passed and the voices of the dead.

Sighing deeply, he bid a softly whispered good night to the ghosts he knew would haunt him this night.

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_**A/N: **The end..._

_Don't worry, there will be more in the next part. Part II: Approbation_

_Virtual cookies to anyone who can figure out what the five parts represent. Hint: check the definitions posted in the first chapter of each Part. _


End file.
